


Santa Would Never Oblige

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/F, Fluff, Genderswap, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-26
Updated: 2009-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[girl!Matt x girl!Mello]</p><p>And Matt isn't eleven anymore; she's nineteen, and they've solved the case, and tonight is Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Would Never Oblige

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EsaNany](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=EsaNany).



Christmas lights and too much toffee, and Mello lets herself fall onto the middle of the bed. Matt stumbles into the room in her wake; raucous carols, from down the hall, lull into quiet as she closes the door and leans against it, laughing. Mello's hair has come loose from its pins, Mello's skirt is gathered up against her thighs, and Mello's right boot is tapping cheerfully against the end of the bed. Mello's lashes are pale on her cheeks, colours intermittent in the glow of the flickering lights beyond the window, and Matt wants to lean out and touch them; wants to ghost her fingertips against them. Some vague point – some orbit inside – some place in the middle of her chest lurches wildly, as she remembers that she's allowed to.

It's still so new, this thing, even though the term seems ridiculous, seeing as it's always been _them_, the two of them, ever since Matt was eleven and had turned up at Wammy's. Still, it feels new, since Mello had pushed her into a corner, blood-spattered and desperate, and had stuck her tongue in Matt's mouth and her hand down Matt's jeans.

Every new thing comes with a new shade of colour, and this new thing is iridescent.

And Matt isn't eleven anymore; she's nineteen, and they've solved the case, and tonight is Christmas. Just the wisp of Christmas, the tendrils of it, the last breath of it, caught ensnared by the ever-moving clock; Christmas, together, here, and Matt is allowed to touch if she wants to.

Matt locks the door even as she pushes away from it, and propels herself towards the bed, shedding her wool-lined jacket as she goes.

Mello grins, eyes still closed, says, “Ate too bloody much,” then raises her hips from the bed long enough to pull free the gun that she's been packing. She pushes it beneath a pillow and loosens the leather ties on her skirt. Mello doesn't usually wear skirts, but Matt likes them on her. They make Mello look like the girl that she is, instead of the androgynous creature she usually presents herself as, alternatively as a defence or a weapon, when they're working; the androgynous creature everyone either wants to fuck, or fuck with.

But tonight, for Matt and for now, Mello is a girl, with all the trappings, and she belongs to Matt alone, defences down and weapons away.

Matt sits on the bed and studies her, as though she could score the image onto the underside of her eyelids, to be consulted whenever she's feeling down. Mello's legs are enough to make Matt's breath catch, and the white flash of her thighs, in the changeable light, is enough to break Matt's heart – and enjoy the feel of it being ripped asunder.

Mello is chaos made wondrous.

Matt leans over, and touches her mouth to Mello's eyelids. Mello purrs, and slides her hands beneath Matt's shirt. Matt trails a finger from Mello's knee to the top of her boot, thumbs at the leather, then undoes the buckles slowly.

The curious thing is, once upon a time – back when she was young, and ignorant, and busy trying to convince herself that she didn't like girls (that she didn't like her best friend like _that_) – Matt had had this image in her head, this idea, that girls-who-love-girls somehow wouldn't have a sense of taste similar to boys-who-like-girls. This is the idea Matt had had in her head and, with it, words like _butch_. But beauty for one isn't beauty for another, and Matt has found herself declaring allegiance to an unexpected set of aesthetics. She loves the long slip of Mello's legs, as she pulls the girl's boots off. She loves the wriggle of Mello's body, as the girl liberates herself from her tight skirt. She loves how Mello shivers, when Matt kisses that spot beneath Mello's bellybutton, and murmurs against her in time to the purr of the heater in the corner. Matt loves the slight sway of Mello's breasts, beneath the swell of her bra, as Matt moves up and frees them, only to entrap them in her hands. She loves the curve of Mello's neck, the softness of fuzz on Mello's thighs, the prescient hint of dampness, when she presses her knee against Mello's knickers, and the way that Mello says Matt's name; like a mantra, like a spell, like she doesn't even know she's doing it.

Matt loves _Mello_, and Mello is so beautiful that it makes Matt's insides ache.

“Did you get me a present, then?” Mello asks, her hands down the back of Matt's jeans.

Matt laughs against the girl's neck, says, “Of course,” and kisses at Mello's skin, at the slope of Mello's breast, at the ridge of her collarbone. She thinks about the gift, wrapped and hidden in her bag, then adds, “Me.”

Mello's hands knead Matt's hips. “Oh, really?” she says, eyebrows arched, and grinning, as Matt slips from her grasp and slides lower. She puts her hands in Matt's hair. “I'm not sure if that meets my high and exacting standards, you know.”

“You don't actually _have_ any standards,” Matt snorts against Mello's bellybutton. “You just tell yourself that before you fall asleep, like a kid with a fairytale.”

Mello curls her thumbs at Matt's shoulders, then reaches down and tugs, until Matt sits up enough to take her own t-shirt off. “Good point,” the blonde agrees, surveying Matt's breasts possessively. “But I'm sure you could help me think up a new fairytale, if you'd like. You know, one about me and you, and certain deeds that are illegal in a number of countries. To make up for this oh-so-shoddy Christmas present, you fail Santa, you.” She sits up properly, and makes to pull Matt into her lap, but Matt's too quick – and Mello's legs are open loosely now, and her thighs are trembling as Matt kisses them.

“You're the queen of mixed messages, you know that? Besides, Santa would never oblige with this.” Matt laughs, then adds, “These knickers of yours really need to go.”

Mello obviously agrees but, if she was planning on saying anything else on the subject, it ends up lost amongst the touch of hands and mouths and greedy hips, and the sweet tangle of their bodies beneath Christmas lights.

Somewhere, the carols are still playing.


End file.
